Writing As I See The World

Back to Zanzibar

It is true.  Zanzibar captivated me.  The Union Day long weekend holiday offered another opportunity to head over last weekend.  Zanzibar is such an incredibly wonderful respite from the hustle of Dar es Salaam. No traffic, people take their time, people say hello regularly, and it is also a place to find amazing seafood.  A restaurant in Stone Town makes what they call a seafood casserole, which might also be described as a cioppino with a coconut and lemongrass broth, huge whole langostines, pieces of fish, and cracked crab.  It is delicious, and each time I've enjoyed it I have taken my time, savoring every moment of eating it.

Our colleague Donna joined us for the weekend from Nairobi, which made the weekend all the more special.  She is working with a group of flying doctors, going to remote areas throughout East Africa a performing urologic surgery.  It was wonderful to be with her and enjoy her warmth and sense of humor.

Of particular note this trip was our visit to the Jozani Forest National Park.  At the park we walked through the beautiful mahogany forest, the mangrove swamp, and the highlight of the trip, visited a troop of red colobus monkeys. After the 25 or so monkeys got used to our presence, they started showing off and coming closer and closer.  They seemed to be in a near-constant flurry of activity all around us as we stood under the big breadfruit tree where they swung from branch to branch, performed aerial acrobatics, and played what looked like "king of the branch" where each monkey tried to topple a monkey sitting on one swinging branch.  They were clearly enjoying themselves and seemed completely at ease with our presence.  I shot a video, which I will upload to YouTube when I have an internet connection that can accommodate the file size.

Stone Town is also a place that sees a lot of tourists, although it is currently rainy season and few are visiting. Of particular interest to me are the textiles, which are spectacular, and particularly the scarves they sell seemingly everywhere.  They are the perfect gift - light, easily transportable, and something unlikely to be readily found at home.  My colleagues suggested that maybe I could assuage my interest by finding them nice scarves rather than continuing to buy them (or more to the point suggested I was cut off from further purchases).  A few vendors know me pretty well.  I love the color combinations.

We also spent a few days up at Kendwa Beach again, another perfect day of sun, powdery white sand, and crystal clear warm water.  I spent much of the day in the water, diving down to look at coral formations, anemones, and the colorful array of fish.  During one foray into the water, I had two small bright yellow fish stay with me the entire time, maybe 30-45 minutes, swimming alongside, diving with me, and staying in my lap as I sat in shallow water.  Lap fish!  Who knew?

Being in Bagamoyo Town

Spending time in Bagamoyo also offered the opportunity to get to know the town better.  My first impression was sad, as the older part of town closest to the ocean is dominated by crumbling old buildings from the Omani and German eras, with partial walls sticking up into the air. There is a town full of them. Those that are not completely piles of rubble, and many that are partly so, have people living in them without water or electricity, using wood fires to cook.  The old buildings are also beautiful, even in their crumbling state, often including ornately carved front doors, sometimes leading to open air on the other side of the wall, a common feature they share with buildings in Stone Town on Zanzibar.  Two of the old buildings have been renovated, and the Marienschule, the old German school, is in a building maintained through German sponsorship.  The Marienschule was also the first integrated school in East Africa.

Poverty sets the stage for Bagamoyo, a town that was once prosperous, but that was in a different era.  Bagamoyo has a beautiful beach, which is largely a working beach for fishermen and the water quality is murky and not particularly inviting. The resident goats offered a moment of laughter. There was once a higher-end resort just outside of town that provided jobs, but that burned down some time ago.  Old faded billboards featuring the resort are all that is left.  It is not particularly safe to walk around after dark, especially on the beach, where you are warned to never walk with valuables.  This all created in me a palpable sense of separation, of being mzungu and therefore assumed to be wealthy (which is relatively very true), and walking around with what to me seems a small amount of money can translate into more than many people here see in a month.  There is often a subtext to people walking up and initiating conversation, with friendly chat ultimately leading to a request for money.  Responses require a stream of contextual calls, where I do not want to distance myself simply because someone wants to engage me. That said, it is often a good idea to clarify intent before someone offers to do something for you (although this too can be contextual). This can feel awkward to my sensibilities, but can save a whole lot more awkwardness later when expectations are found to be quite different, and it is culturally appropriate.  It can be difficult to reconcile the feeling of being a walking ATM, yet I am also acutely aware that I don't want to be 'hardened' to need. Humor helps a lot.  This applies to Tanzania generally.

Other notable parts of Bagamoyo are the slave trading facilities, dating from the Omani empire and the Arab slave trade.  Black people were rounded up all over East Africa, taken to Bagamoyo, and then transported to the slave market on Zanzibar. Thus, the name Bagamoyo also has an association with slavery in Tanzania. The slave trade made Bagamoyo prosperous before it was outlawed during the German colonial period. The town has never recovered. Simultaneous to the slave trade, there was a free zone in town, where black people had been emancipated by the Catholic church, a celebrated situation that also contributed to a strange set of dynamics.  Today, Bagamoyo is a mostly conservative Muslim town, which also stands at odds with becoming a touristy beach town.

My first afternoon included a meal at a restaurant occupying one of the two renovated buildings.  I went there directly from the hospital, and as I had my laptop with me, I pulled it out and played some of my music, eventually taking requests and drawing a group of people enjoying the entertainment.  Country music was at the top of the request list, including Kenny Rogers and Willie Nelson.  It is such a small world sometimes and it was so much fun.  The bartender/waiter offered to take me on a tour of the town the next day. Despite what I thought was some clarity about price, at the end of the tour he asked about the possibility of my funding his musical education.  Quick math in my head calculated this to cost about $300, an enormous sum in Tanzania, where a significant portion of the population makes little more than this in a year.  It was an awkward moment, and yet it was in the context of talking about his aspirations.  

All of this said, it is important to note that the general friendliness of Tanzanians is very present.  Just as often, people strike up conversations because they want to meet, say hello, maybe use their English, delight in hearing a mzungu speak some Kiswahili and offer help to learn more, and the opportunity to learn something about one another.  It is fascinating to get to know the cultural differences, and what sometimes feels like a strange abridgment of rules of engagement in the US is not here... and vice versa.  It is all about context.

Visiting Bagamoyo Hospital

My project in Tanzania involves facilitating linkages between the Muhimbili University of Health and Allied Sciences (MUHAS) in Dar es Salaam and the Bagamoyo Health District, about an hour drive outside of Dar.  It is intended to be a collaborative relationship in which MUHAS and the District both meet specific goals, such as offering students experiential learning and an understanding of health care services in the districts, continuing education for District staff, and hopefully, encouraging students to consider a career in outlying health districts where there are severe shortages of health workers.

Bagamoyo is the oldest hospital in Tanzania, with the oldest buildings in use dating from 1895, when Bagamoyo was a relatively important city in German East Africa.  The hospital has expanded over time, but the bulk of the buildings are seriously out of date, and equipment out of date or non-existent.  Supplies are variable in their availability.

 My arrival at Bagamoyo had challenging timing. The District Commissioner arrived at the same time to fire five people for "fiscal irregularities."  It is difficult to imagine that anyone could steal from a facility that is limping along trying to meet community need.  In a country in which corruption is an every day occurrence, it seemed a good thing that people were being called on their actions (while at the same time I wondered about the underlying politics).  The activities of the day put my hosts on edge.  My primary contact person was called into a series of meetings, so he put me in the hands of a young physician to continue my tour of the hospital and assessment of facilities.

I was quickly impressed with Dr. Kyoro.  He is new to the hospital, one of only a couple available physicians, a recent MUHAS graduate, has a high level of personal commitment and energy, and is filled with ideas.  He is from a small village near Kilimanjaro, enjoys the variety of patients seen in a small facility, and is committed to being at Bagamoyo for 2-3 years until he might get government sponsorship to continue his medical education and specialize in obstetrics and gynecology.  He hopes to then return to Bagamoyo.  First, recruiting a doctor to a district hospital is a very big deal (or having them at all).  Second, someone like Dr. Kyoro could also be a spark to help the hospital make much-needed changes. High on the list of those changes is the operating theater.

 The operating theater needs to be replaced to be able to offer services the district needs.  It is nearly impossible to really clean, windows are broken and covered with cardboard, the operating table saw better days decades ago, anesthesia is an old ether diffuser with no monitoring equipment, there is an old and weak suction machine, the overhead light does not work, and the surgical recovery area is in a vestibule in the small building including an entrance door to the outdoors (literally a table behind the door), and another outside door to the bathroom and wash tubs/clothes line.  The vast majority of surgeries done are emergency cesarean sections, and they are forced to refer many cases to hospitals in Dar, which takes a great deal of time and is at a cost that most cannot afford (recall discussions about transport - it is always challenging).  Women do not come to the hospital for normal deliveries.  It is, however, not unusual for women to experience extremely long labor periods, sometimes many days in length, and which can result in fistulas . There are no data on surgical infections, but my guess is that the rate is fairly high.  

My focus expanded into gathering information about what it would take to update the operating theater. As there is unlikely to be government funding available for new facilities and equipment, this would also require seeking donor funding.  It is a long shot, maybe, but a new theater would significantly improve the quality of care and health outcomes in the district.  The hospital does have notable bright spots, including a terrific HIV/AIDS program, an area in which there is quite a lot of international funding, and including a great voluntary counseling and testing program.  I was impressed by the very good availability of HIV drugs (some extremely expensive in the US, like Atripla), and a home-based care program.  This said, HIV drugs generally still reach only those who are most ill in the country (in the US, the current standard is initiating treatment upon diagnosis of HIV infection, while people are healthy). Unfortunately they don't have the lab equipment necessary to monitor the impact of HIV drugs on body systems, like liver function. Most drugs outside of HIV are not funded from elsewhere (with the exception of some malaria drugs), and their cost is the responsibility of patients, often making them too expensive.  The hospital is also in need of antibiotics, which brought my thoughts back to surgical infections.

There is much work to be done and it is clear that significant assistance also needs to come from outside the hospital, and probably from outside the country.  The task is huge on the one hand, but there are also relatively small changes that can be made that would significantly shift health care quality and community health status.  Maybe even sooner rather than later.

Living Monsoon

This, hopefully, will be one of several 'catch up' posts.  Internet has been out in much on the country for the past five days.  The water system in Dar is not working, resulting in the need to pump ground water, with warnings to be particularly careful about ingesting any of it.  The power goes in and out, and our fuse box at home went out at least 15 times yesterday evening.  As I know people who are having trouble with their water pumps, having tap water at all is quite the luxury.  The water here at the office goes in and out, but it is easy to fill up buckets outside to flush the toilet.  It has not stopped raining for three days, creating lakes/swamps in a city with poor drainage to begin with.  So hopefully internet and power will last a bit to write and feel connected.  Welcome to monsoon season.

In the midst of the rain I lost my umbrella.  As I was squeezing my body into a daladala on the way home from the office, the conductor took my daypack and it was passed up toward the front to go between the legs of someone who was sitting.  My umbrella also got handed to someone, but I was so engaged in keeping track of my pack (and laptop) that the umbrella went out of mind. Once in the daladala there is no wiggle room to search anyway.  I suspect it was on the floor, and I realized it was missing after I got off the daladala, with my daypack, and I took one look at the mass of bodies still on board and said... oh well. It wasn't a moment to engage a search party.

A staff member in the office kindly went out and got me a new umbrella.  It is quite something. I've traded my collapsable non-descript black model for a bright blue non-collapsable number, with bright red roses on a ring around the edge and near the tip.  To make it even better (and even more un-missable) there is a flashy gold plastic handle.  It is an umbrella that stands out in the crowd.  Before I leave Tanzania it will find a new home (not sure who I will bequeath this to - it might become an office extra), as I divest items to reduce overall packing weight for the small-airplane flight to Kilimanjaro.

I look out the window and surprise!  It is still raining!  The blue rosy umbrella will get much use.

Zanzibar!

 Magical.  That is the word that comes to mind when I think of Zanzibar.  The island is a two hour ferry ride from Dar es Salaam and a world away.  Zanzibar is different.  It has its own government as a semi-autonomous region, the "zan" part of Tanzania (the other part being the mainland, Tanganyika).  I now have a Zanzibar stamp in my passport.  Zanzibar strongly reflects its Arab heritage.  In 1698, it came under the rule of the Sultan of Oman, after 200 years as part of the Portuguese Empire.  During this time, Zanzibar became the center of the Arab slave and ivory trade, and spice plantations were developed.  The spice plantations are still there, producing cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla, black/white/green/red pepper, turmeric, and cardamom among them.  It was fascinating to walk around a spice plantation from tree to tree, plant to plant, smelling, tasting, and guessing what they were.

 I stayed in Stone Town, with it's narrow winding alleys, beautiful old buildings with incredible ornate carved front doors, and distinct Muslim influence, with men in their long white, shirt-like Thobes, women in hijab.  This is contrasted with Stone Town as a very modern art center.  Stone Town reminded me of the Arabic version of Venice, and my first evening I walked around, getting completely lost and enjoying every moment of the surprises that unfolded.  Small squares with children playing, busy markets, people out walking and shopping in the cooler evening air, the sound of the call to prayer, passing many small mosques that opened up to the alleys, giving a clear view of men ritually washing before prayer, and men praying in the next room.  I love the rhythm of Stone Town and the sense of peacefulness in the midst of a lot of activity.  The smells in the air, from the salty ocean breeze, to the smells of curries, roasting meat and the delightful surprise of rosewater and cardamom in the air that greeted me when I entered my room.

 My colleagues from UCSF and I headed up to the northern tip of the island for a day at Kendwa Beach, which I soon described as the perfect day.  Pure white sand contrasted with the crystal clear turquoise water.  I was in the water, reveling in the warm Indian Ocean, the chance to swim, a place to share with friends.  I spent much of the day with my goggles on swimming and diving into the water enjoying the sea life.  In the water, I am in my element, and this place was perfection.  There is something about swimming in the warm salty ocean that is an entirely different sensual experience.

 The mid-day monsoon rain signaled time to get out of the water and have lunch in an open thatch-roofed restaurant while the rain poured.  On cue, the sun came out again after lunch, offering more opportunity to be in the water.  At the end of the day, there was a beautiful, long sunset walk on the beach.  I didn't want the day to end.  The day at the beach added to the magic of Zanzibar, a place that truly is a feast for all the senses. 

The Adventure of Transport in Dar

There are four basic options for getting around Dar es Salaam.  First, on foot.  Not bad if you are going a relatively short distance, but long walks can be a challenge with the hot sun and humidity, and sudden afternoon downpours (yielding lots of mud and giant muddy pothole lakes which often force you into trying to 'share' the available space with vehicles - something that is not natural for drivers here - although the tradeoff is that rain cools things off a bit).  Gradually, my walking pace is slowing down, but I still walk faster than nearly everyone, adding to my 'sweat factor.'  And walking is free, which is a big plus along with the exercise.  

Second there are taxis. Taxis have no meters.  Usually I have some idea how much a taxi ought to cost based upon the distance I am traveling, and sometimes drivers surprise me and offer a rate that corresponds to expectation.  More often, there is a negotiation process, and we generally land somewhere between Tsh 4000 ($3) and Tsh 8,000. Sometimes they start as high as Tsh 20,000, and you are obliged to look them in the eye, put on a disappointed face, and offer another price option substantially less (hapana... elfu tano, or nooo... in a sad way that conveys the first offer was painfully high... 5000). To which he may accept or in an equally pained voice offer another price point, and so it goes.

Third, there are the daladalas (mini-busses), which deserve their own post.  Daladalas are also often very well-used vehicles from somewhere else, with Chinese or Korean writing on their sides.  I can now say that yes, I have ridden a daladala hanging partly out the door hanging on for dear life while it is zipping along.  The positive spin on this is that there is a breeze and it's not as hot and sweaty as standing inside packed body to body as I am stooped over due to my height while trying to avoid banging my head on the metal grab bars jerry-rigged along the ceiling while keeping track of my laptop bag and few groceries.  On the other hand, the outside version of riding is probably not a healthy practice, especially given the general wackiness that exists on the streets. Daladalas are a great bargain at Tsh 250 (20 cents), if a tad uncomfortable, especially in traffic when there is no breeze coming in from the window and everyone is sweating. 

It is often said that no daladala is ever really full... which is not completely true, but close.  There is no such thing as 'personal space.'  Even if you do get a seat, you may wind up with someone basically on top of you.  The conductor, standing in the open doorway and sounding like an auctioneer, yells out the destination over and over at each stop, adding more and more people, who create a tighter and tighter mass. There was a woman last night standing up who essentially flopped her body on mine (seated), as I did not dare to move my elbow located in the vicinity of one set of her private parts while another set rested on my head. More sweaty body contact than I bargained for, and there truly was nowhere else to go, except shift a bit, and that prospect seemed potentially even more problematic and unappetizing. During traffic jams, daladala drivers may decide to alter the route a bit to drive on backroads, leaving me to my sense of direction (often in the dark) to have a vague notion that yes, we are still heading in essentially the intended direction and we are approximately 'x' distance from the road the route normally is on.  Yet, somehow it works, and part of the adventure is how it works.

The fourth option is a tuk-tuk/bajaji, or a small 3-wheeled mini-taxi.  The big advantage of bajaji is that they can weave around traffic, go on the side of the road (including the opposite side), occasionally on pedestrian paths... something I have yet to experience first hand.  I have two colleagues here doing rotations in the emergency room at Muhimbili National Hospital.  Stories of accident victims have prompted me to draw a transport line in the sand between me and bajaji, who don't stand much of a chance in confrontation with an SUV.  

Traffic in Dar is amazing, especially at rush hour.  There are few main roads heading out of the inner city, and they are often clogged (SUVs, all Japanese, are very popular here).  I am still trying to figure out a rhythm for commuting, relying primarily on daladalas, progressively starting earlier and earlier, finding alternate routes, and sometimes even getting a seat. This morning I was on the daladala at 6:30, arriving at the office at 7:10, which I think may be about as good as it gets to travel the few miles (including a good walk at the end).  Evenings are more confusing and the default so far is to stay at the office as late as possible (only two people have keys for security reasons, so when they go, everyone must go), usually around 7:00 pm, and then go to dinner, commuting home later.  Given that the office has an internet connection (albeit variable and slow... I think I have only mentioned my new internet meditation practice on Facebook) and air conditioning (assuming the electricity is working), it is a comfortable place.

There is no question that transport will continue to be a series of adventures.  I will return to MUNI in San Francisco with a fresh new perspective.

About Transportation

Our experience of getting up to Amani was rather intense.  The experience getting home was even moreso.

Benita left the day before, and caught a truck heading out of the mountains at around 6:00 am, with a seat in the back of the of the cab.  The next morning it was our turn.  We were ready at 6:00 am, but there was no truck.  When one finally did come through, there was no chance of possibly adding yet another person. We waited until close to 8:00 when another truck came through.  It also looked completely packed, and I thought we were going to have to wait further, when they said we should jump on the back.  

The truck was very high up, the bed had a tarp over the front 5-6 feet, and the rest was open with people standing up hanging on to overhead bars, sitting on the sides, hanging off the back, and sitting on the roof of the cab (around 40+ people as far as I could see and count).  There was a rope hanging from from one of the overhead bars and we were instructed to haul ourselves up and over the back gate, the top of which was taller than me.  I went first, pulling my body up and over the top, when everyone on the truck yelled out "ndizi, ndizi" and pointing at this large basket of bananas right at the back of the truck where I was about to land.  I managed to find a way between legs and feet and bodies to get over the basket and find a couple footholds.  One, in a small available space atop underlying bundles of sugar cane, the other in a different direction and much higher up on a big bag of potatoes (or possibly manioc root), while finding a place that was unoccupied by hands on the overhead bars to hang on and steady myself.  Sher-Ping followed, but unfortunately did partly land on the ndizi to loud shouts, then realized what was happening and shifted over to the top of the next basket, which produced more shouts - it was a basket of greens.  She managed to find another place to squeeze in on the sugar cane bundles.

I quickly realized two things.  First, most of my weight was on the foot on the sugar cane, but there was essentially nowhere else to go.  Second, my arms and hands were going to quickly get sore from hanging the rest of my body weight.  Occasionally, it seemd that maybe the truck was not going to bounce around too much and I would let go with one hand, bring it down from overhead and quickly shake it out before just as quickly grabbing the bar again.  After 20 minutes I was sore.  The sun was up and hot.  And we were packed in, sweaty body to sweaty body.  I quickly gave up on the thought of not getting mud on my clothes from the shoes of people sitting at my head height on the walls of the truck bed. 

It took two hours to get out of the mountains and to the town of Muheza, where we were to catch a bus to Dar es Salaam.  It occurred to me along the way that I was just experiencing this once.  It was hard, sometimes painful, and really hot, but for me it was an experience.  For the people who lived there, this was a regular part of transportation.  Something that is a daily part of their lives.  I was amazed at elderly people who seemed capable of being there without it seeming to be a problem.  In odd positions, hanging on, being buffeted around as the truck traveled down the potholed road, and exhibiting incredible strength.  There was also a lively banter, some of it at our expense - the mzungu on board.  It was clear it was in jest, and people wanted to interact and make some fun of the experience. Yet another experience of wishing I could speak better Kiswahili.  One man suggested that I might like to buy a plot of land from him in Amani, to laughter, and I said sure!

 When we got to Muheza, we found that unbeknownst to to us, the woman overseeing the rest house had asked one of the men to help us out.  We walked the final mile to the bus staging area (a lively, crazy place, pictured, surrounded on 3 sides by shops and ticket offices, many people coming and going from a constant stream of busses and daladalas) and he helped us get tickets, ensure we had seats on a bus back to Dar, and took us to a cafe out of the hot sun where we got something to eat. His family lives in Amani where his wife teaches school, and he works in Dar, getting back to see his wife and two children one weekend a month. We waited another 2.5 hours until our bus arrived (one of many, many busses from many different companies - it is very confusing to navigate), steeling ourselves for 5.5 hours packed onto it, but at least with an assigned seat.

This is transportation in Tanzania.  You don't necessarily know for sure what form it is going to take.  It might be a bus, the back of a truck (possibly hanging on), catching a ride on the back of a motorcycle, or atop a load on a dump truck going your way.  For a few shillings you will get there.  Eventually.

Monkeys in the Trees

It has been a busy week and I feel that there is a great deal to catch up on. This is more about being at Amani Nature Reserve.

 We were walking back down the mountain in the late afternoon to get back to the Zigi rest house by dark. I mentioned that we had spent an entire day out hiking and had not seen any monkeys.  Right after those words left my lips, there was suddenly screeching and leaves raining down from the trees above us as a troop of colobus monkeys went in many different directions to get away from us.  The funny part was that we would have walked underneath and never noticed them if they had not made such a racket.  It was amazing to watch them as the jumped from tree to tree, sometimes jumping out of the tops of larger trees to the small limbs of trees far below, making them sway with their weight.  It was quite impressive.  The fear was of us, not of the seeming death-defying leaps they were engaging in.  "Whoa!  Did you see that jump!"  Amazing.  Sometimes you couldn't really see the monkeys themselves, but their long tails gave them away.

Shortly thereafter we saw another troop of monkeys.  This time I wasn't sure which type they were, and looking back at the guidebook, they might have been blue monkeys.  It was another large troop, again taking incredible leaps from tree to tree.  

 The next morning we walked out of the rest house to see a tribe of baboons across the road.  They kept their distance, but didn't run entirely.  They just put a little more space between us and them.  Young baboons would venture a little further, keeping their eyes on us and clearly curious, and then run back, and then get curious again and venture out to take a closer look.  It was a large tribe, with young baboons hanging on to the backs of their mothers as they moved around, and much larger males, keeping a close eye on us and occasionally barking out sounds that sent the rest of the troop a little further away from us.  For the most part, they established their distance, and relaxed.  They sat on rocks, the young ones played together, and then tried to engage adults, who would occasionally bat them away as if to say they were setting limits on them.  

This wasn't a major wildlife viewing trip, but it was fun to see the monkeys and baboons.   

Being in the Mountains

 Benita, Sher-Ping and I were the only people staying at the Zigi Rest House at Amani.  It is offseason due to the rain, but we woke up to a beautiful day and headed up the mountain.  All along the way we ran into people, always exchanging 'Jambo!' or 'Habari!' whether they were also walking, in trucks heading up, or on pikipikis (motorcycles).  Watching a family of 4 share a motorcycle on a very bumpy mountain road was quite amazing.  And, always, we were greeted by smiles.  People on motorcycles coming downhill coasted the whole way.

As we ascended and the morning wore on it got hotter and we took it slower.  We were heading to Amani Rest House.  The sun was out, and the views of the mountains, the sounds of rushing streams and the mountainside villages, the flowers and amazing dense palms, beautiful white tree trunks set against a sea of deep green jungle. across the valleys all made for a spectacular day.  Up the switchbacks, one after another, thoroughly appreciating the occasional cooling breeze.

 At the top, we found an array of buildings and villages, a Catholic and an Anglican church, a malaria research station, and best of all, a small shop in Amani village where we each got a wonderful orange Fanta, enjoying the cool liquid sweetness.  That says a lot coming from a non-soda drinker.  At the store, there were boys carrying large buckets full of items atop their heads. The views of the surrounding mountains, the valleys, the villages tucked into the forest, and the people, the smiles, the greetings, the colors of their clothing, was simultaneously exotic and comforting.  Unlike being in the big city, there was no sense of needing to be 'on guard.'  That opened up more possibilities for interacting with and meeting people.  Kids enjoyed having me take their photo and then looking at themselves on the screen.  At the same time, I was also very conscious of not being too intrusive with the camera.

As we walked through the forest following trails through lush foliage that made it almost dark in the sun, sometimes including rock hops across mountain streams and bright orange clay trails damp/muddy/slippery due to the daily afternoon rain (with recent imprints of bare feet), nearly every trail led to a hidden village of mud huts and thatched roofs, surrounded by banana trees.  We often came across kids playing.  On one occasion as we made our way down a steep hill through thick bamboo, we found ourselves at a rough plank bridge crossing a rushing mountain stream and connecting to another thatch-roofed village.  We met a man at the stream who offered to show us a powerhouse and waterfall. We followed him through the bamboo, to an old powerhouse, he held the door open to show us the equipment in the interior.  He showed the equipment very proudly, the sluice gate, the turbine, showing me the "London 1928" date on the decrepit equipment.  It clearly hadn't been used in many years.  In the corner was a place to sleep.  It was also his home.

 He then took us further up the hill along the stream to the middle of the waterfall, where helped each of us through the thick brush and across the slippery rocks. The most lovely part of this was that it was very clear that he was showing us the waterfall because he loved the place.  He asked us (in Kiswahili) to remove our shoes and showed us where to walk so that we would be less likely to slip and fall.  The waterfall was beautiful, and we never would have been able to go there without his assistance.  It was a truly lovely experience.

Our Journey to Amani

Last weekend was a four-day Easter holiday in Tanzania.  As a result, we decided to go to Amani Nature Reserve in the Usambara Mountains near Tanga in the northeast corner of Tanzania close to the Kenya border.  Amani is an incredible place, and I will write much more about the experience.  However, getting there and back was it's own experience.

Our early morning start was at the Ubungo bus terminal in Dar es Salaam, several miles from Upanga, where we live.  Ubungo almost defies description.  There are so many different bus companies that it is quite the challenge for the uninitiated to figure that out, despite its importance.  It is important because there is also a wide variation in cost and quality of bus transport.  The terminal is a huge outdoor space filled with what seemed like hundreds of busses going all over Tanzania.  The terminal building is ringed by tiny bus ticket offices, shops, market stalls, people everywhere, touts trying to scam you into buying a fake ticket, and general noise and chaos.  It's quite the experience.

Our cab driver told us that the busses to Tanga were in the closest line of many, many lines of busses, and we were also told to not buy a ticket anywhere but on the bus.  Sort of.  We found a bus to Tanga, it started pouring, and a guy directed us to seats.  We were also told not to pay more than Tsh 10,000, but he demanded Tsh 15,000.  OK.  The difference between $7.50 and $11.25 for a 5-hour trip.  I wasn't in the mood to argue.  

The bus won't leave until it is full.  There is no specific schedule.  It filled fairly quickly.  The bus had 5 seats across with a narrow aisle and we were seated in the back. As I sat there I realized that there was no emergency exit and hoped this would not be one of the drivers who drive a bus like a Formula One race car.  After sitting there interminably, the bus finally squeezed out of the cue, having to do a multi-point turn to get out of the narrow space without knocking into vendor stalls along the terminal building wall.   It was also getting hot quickly as we waited in a long queue of busses to get out of the terminal.

 Along the way we stopped periodically to pick up more people who stood in the center aisle, gradually filling up the center aisle as well as the seats.  Every time the bus stopped it was descended upon by an army of vendors selling water, soda, biscuits, grilled corn, samosas, sandals, fruit, hard boiled eggs, craft items, and just about anything you might imagine.  The stops meant no breeze through the windows and it got stifling fast.  Vendors also came on board with huge boxes of items, making their way down the center aisle full of people standing.  It was the first of these stops that it occurred to me that this was a golden opportunity to practice bus meditation.  

We were dropped off at Muheza to find that we had no way to get to Amani.  The only option was hiring a cab to drive us the 37 km.  Fortunately, we had ace bargainer Benita (visiting from her fieldwork in Gaborone, Botswana), who managed to cut the price in half to Tsh 25,000.  About 10 km into the trip we encountered a minibus loaded with people and an amazing amount of stuff on top stuck in the mud, with a trailer in front of it having dumped part of its load of logs. Our cab was instantly surrounded by kids curious about us, and I got out with them and we had conversation including some English, some Kiswahili (with laughter at my clumsiness), and sign language. After considerable effort by everyone, the minibus finally got unstuck, the logs moved out of the way, the minibus started back up and promptly went off the road, all wheels on the left in the air and stacks of items falling off the roof. It gave our cabbie room to squeeze past the upended wheels.  Oh my.

We did finally arrive at our 'rest house' in the reserve, thanked our taxi driver and the powers that be for being alive and at our destination.  After settling in went for a walk, enjoying the cool breeze of the evening, the sound of the mountain stream rushing past, the fresh smell in the air, delighted with being in a tropical jungle filled with beautiful trees, palms, hearing the calls of birds, monkeys, and who knows what else, exchanging 'habari' and 'karibu' with a few villagers I met along the way, and the stress of the day became distant.  Sweet.